I still remember the exact smallness of that moment — the echo of splashing in the indoor pool, the smell of chlorine, the warmth from the big glass roof above. I’d just swum up to the edge, felt a little off, and told my friends, “I’ll join you in a minute” as they ran off to play table tennis.
What came next felt like stepping into a completely different universe.
A headache like nothing I’d ever known hit me — all-encompassing, suffocating. It took up every inch of my being. I was on my knees, crawling to where my towel must be, trying to keep some dignity while vomiting in front of strangers. And then, just as suddenly, the pain started to ease.
A small light appeared. It grew stronger. I felt… better. Almost good. There was this magnetic pull toward it — exhilarating, beautiful, pure. I wanted to merge with it completely.
And then — SLAP.
The lifeguard’s hand across my face yanked me back. Pain returned instantly. I was furious. How dare he? Only later did I understand: he had just saved my life.
The moment I had to choose
After the operation — or maybe it was before, maybe somewhere in between — time stopped meaning anything. I was drifting in and out of consciousness, floating in a place where there was no clock, no urgency. Somewhere in that weightless space, I was asked — not with words, but with a clarity that cut through everything — to choose: life, or death.
It wasn’t a poetic choice. It was a real one.
I made the conscious decision to live.
And I knew instantly: if I chose life, I had to fight for it. It would not be given back to me whole; I would have to rebuild it, piece by piece.
When I finally came fully back to myself, the world had changed. My body had changed. I could not speak at all. I couldn’t read or write. My vision was blurred like frosted glass. And perhaps most unsettling of all, the way I thought — the logical pathways I had relied on — had stopped working the way I knew them. My brain was different. My world was different.
The fight to remember wholeness
Doctors told me I was “lucky to be alive” — as if that meant the rest didn’t matter. But something in me knew my body could heal. That it remembered wholeness, even if I couldn’t feel it yet.
It didn’t happen overnight. It took patience, relentless effort, the support of my family, friends, and a few teachers who believed in me. But slowly, I learned to speak again. To read. To write. To think in my own way. My body remembered. And it healed.
That’s the thing — I believe we all have that innate ability to remember our wholeness. To restore ourselves — body, mind, and soul — if we give ourselves the right support.
Why this matters for you
I don’t share this story to be dramatic. I share it because you don’t need a near-death experience to decide to really live. You don’t need your life to be ripped apart to see its value.
You have the choice, right now, to move from surviving to thriving. To stop treating your health like a “later” project and start giving your body, mind, and spirit what they need to flourish.
If my brain aneurysm taught me anything, it’s this: life is urgent.
And not in a panic-driven way — but in a don’t-waste-it way.
💡 Special note — This week I’m celebrating what I call my Second Birthday — the anniversary of the day I got a second chance at life. In honour of that, I’ve created my Second Birthday Reset Celebration Package: a chance to recommit to your health, energy, and joy — and start living like your life depends on it (because, well… it does).
